


Immune To Your Consultations

by JenTheSweetie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 07:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10183910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: “Oh, for god’s sake,” John said.  “I can only handle one teenager at a time!”Rosie Watson has a secret.  Too bad secrets aren't much good around 221B Baker Street.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the birthday of the lovely Snapjack, who is my editor, inspirer and constant companion. Thank you for encouraging me to finish this - and thank you to all of you for reading!
> 
> Title from "Changes" by David Bowie.

Rosie Watson was a model child: bright, inquisitive, friendly, loyal, a delightful mix of her father and her mother and the tolerable bits of Sherlock Holmes.  She was a star pupil at school, popular among her classmates and the absolute light of her patchwork little family’s life.

Then she turned 15.

“I _won’t_!” Rosie yelled.

“Yes, you will,” John said.

“No, I absolutely won’t!”

“Yes, you most certainly will!”

“Do either of you even remember what you’re arguing about?” Sherlock said.

John and Rosie whirled to him with identical expressions of fury.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said.

“Yeah, shut up, Sherlock,” Rosie said.

“Don’t tell him to shut up,” John said.

“You do it all the time!” Rosie cried.

“Yes, well, that’s different.”

“ _How_?”

“I would prefer if neither of you told me to shut up,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” John said.  

“I’m just trying to help!”  


“Well, you’re not doing a very good job,” John said.

“Oh, and you’re doing _marvelously_  all on your own, are you?” Sherlock said. 

“I hate you both!” Rosie said, storming up the stairs and slamming the door behind her.

John rounded on Sherlock.  “Thanks _very_  much for that.”

Sherlock flounced down the hallway.  “You’re _very_  welcome,” he shouted, just before slamming _his_  bedroom door shut.

John stood in the middle of the living room and fumed for a moment before stomping down two flights of stairs and all the way into his cramped little bedroom in 221C where, it would have been noted if anyone could hear him all the way down there, he slammed _his_  door, too.

-

Breakfast was strained.

“Pass the butter,” John said.

“It’s closer to Sherlock,” Rosie said.

“Busy,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his phone.

“Doing what?” Rosie said.

“Solving a murder.”

“No you’re not, you’re playing Bejeweled.”

“Right, I’ll get it myself,” John said, reaching across the table.  “Are you coming home straight away after school?”

“I dunno,” Rosie said.

“Will you be home for dinner?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, can you text and let me know?” John said, holding back a sigh.

“I dunno.”

“Right,” John said, setting his tea down with a clatter.  “I’m off to work, then.  See you both tonight.  Or not.  I’ll just be here making dinner that no one else will eat and talking to myself all night long.”

“What’s _his_  problem today?” John heard Rosie mutter as he pulled on his coat in the hallway.

“Just one of his moods,” he heard Sherlock reply under his breath.

John dropped his face into his hands.

-

“You’re home late,” John said as Rosie dropped her bookbag by the door.

“It’s not even half nine,” Rosie said.

“You said you’d be home after dinner.”  
  
“It’s after dinner, isn’t it?”

“Technically, yes,” Sherlock said.  “Where were you?” 

“Olivia’s,” Rosie said.  “I’ve got homework.”

“Well, off you go, then,” John said, watching her climb the stairs.

“She’s lying,” Sherlock said from the sofa.

John rounded on him.  “What?”

“She wasn’t at Olivia’s.”

“How d’you know?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Olivia lives two blocks away, but she came from the Tube, as you can easily deduce when you note that she left her phone in her bookbag and her sweater around waist.”

“Right, obvious,” John said, not that it was.  “Why would she lie about that?” 

“Because she’s a teenager.”

“Too bloody true,” John said.  “So where was she?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

John sighed.  

-

When John got home from a shift at the clinic the next day, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, a horrible, solemn look on his face.

“John,” he said seriously.  “I’ve got to tell you something.”

“Oh, god,” John said.  “Is it Mrs. Hudson?  Is she all right?”

“What?” Sherlock said.  “Yes, of course.  She’s out of biscuits though, could you pick some up next time you’re out?”

“Pick up some - Jesus, I thought you were about to tell me something awful,” John said, collapsing into his chair.

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  “Well, I am, sort of.  Rosie’s got a boyfriend.”

John rocketed back to his feet.  “She’s got a _what_?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said.  “Lying about her whereabouts, shouting at her father when he asks a simple question about her day - classic teenager behaviors, but new to this particular teenager.  And then there’s that horrible cheap aftershave.”

“Pardon?”

“She’s dragged the scent of it into the house every day this week,” Sherlock said.  “Boots, no more than 10 pounds a bottle, absolutely heinous.  I think you used to wear it when you first moved in here.”

“Are you sure?”

“About you and the aftershave?  It was more than twenty years ago, but I’m nearly certain - ”

“No, about the - you know,” John said.  “The _boyfriend_.”

“Yes, quite sure.”

“Well, can you find out anything else?” John said.

“What, you mean _ask_  her?” Sherlock said.  

“I mean be a bloody _detective!_ ”  

“Oh, right.”

-

“Meet Noah Chapman,” Sherlock said, shoving his phone into John’s face the next morning.

John blinked.  “Who?” 

“Rosie’s boyfriend,” Sherlock said.

“How d’you know?”

“I analyzed her social media activity from the past six months and filtered by an increase in mutual likes,” Sherlock said.  “Then I removed anyone she’s ever mentioned to us and cross-referenced all of the check-ins of the remaining boys with places she’s checked in in the last two weeks.  It was enormously simple.”

“Right, well, that’s my cue to delete my Facebook account,” John said.  “So what else do you know about him?”

“He plays rugby at school,” Sherlock said, scrolling through a series of photos.  “Seems to be a Chelsea fan.  Oh, and he’s got an earring.”

“An earring?” John said.  “Is that fashionable these days?” 

“Am I really the right person to ask?” Sherlock said.   

“What are you two talking about?” Rosie said, bursting into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” John and Sherlock said.  Sherlock, rather belatedly, hid his phone behind his back.

Rosie narrowed her eyes.  “Really?  Then what’s on your phone?”

“Porn,” Sherlock said promptly.

“Sherlock!” John snapped.

“Ew!” Rosie cried.  “Oh my god, so much ew - ”

“For god’s sake, it’s not porn,” John said.  “Don’t you want any breakfast?”

“Not anymore,” Rosie yelled as she ran down the stairs.

John rolled his eyes.  “You’re going to traumatize her.”

Sherlock snorted.  “She found a box of human hair in the crisper when she was five.  Somehow I think she’ll survive.”

-

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock said as Mycroft stepped into the flat.

“I’m not a courier service,” Mycroft said.  “Good evening, John.”

“Mycroft,” John said.  “Tea?”

“He’s not staying,” Sherlock said, snatching the tablet out of his hands.

“Apparently I’m not staying,” Mycroft said.  “Do you think it’s serious?”

“Unclear,” Sherlock said.  

“Is what serious?” John said.  “Have you got a case?”

“Is this all you found?” Sherlock said.

“He’s hardly 16,” Mycroft said.  “Not all of us had multiple ASBOs by then, brother dear.”

“I’m sorry, who’s hardly 16?” John said, his Sherlock’s-Done-Something-A-Bit-Not-Good sense tingling.

“Noah Chapman,” Mycroft said.

“Sherlock,” John said.  “You didn’t.”

“What’s the point of keeping Mycroft around if we can’t use him to spy on Rosie’s boyfriends?” Sherlock said.  “Don’t take that away from him, John; it renders him very nearly useful.”

“I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Mycroft said.

“I’m growing sentimental in my dotage,” Sherlock said, scrolling through a stream of photos.  “He had a terrible overbite as a child, _not_  ideal from a genetic perspective.  Oh, look, his great-uncle was the second Baron of Glendevon, didn’t you once try to have him framed for conspiracy, Mycroft?”

“That’s enough,” John said.  “Sherlock, I said ‘research, not ‘pull a government file that probably shouldn’t even exist’.  He’s just a kid, he deserves his privacy, I don’t think we should - ”

“His father voted for Brexit,” Sherlock said.

“All right, give it here,” John said, snatching the tablet.

-

“So,” John said brightly at dinner.  “How are things at school?”

“Fine,” Rosie said.

“Getting on with all your teachers?”

“Yes,” Rosie said.

“And what about maths?  You had a test on Monday, how did it - ”

“It was fine.”

“Good, good,” John said.  “Er, so, who have you been, you know, hanging out with lately?”

“My friends,” Rosie said.

“Olivia, mostly?  Amelia?  What about that boy whose mum always liked you, what was his name - Rupert?  Do you still see Rupert around?”

“I suppose,” Rosie said.

“Any other boys?  Or friends?  Or just boys who are, you know, friends?”

“I dunno,” Rosie said.  “A few.”

John looked pleadingly at Sherlock, who gave a tiny shrug that very clearly said _I’m utterly useless in this situation and you know it_.  

John did know it.  Sherlock was good at helping with homework, spurring intellectual curiosity, inspiring a healthy distrust of authority, and, inexplicably, participating in impromptu living room dance parties.  He was not good at Talking About Feelings.  

“So there’s nobody… special?” John said, a bit desperately.  “Nobody you might want to, you know, tell us about?”

“Er, no,” Rosie said.  “Is there something going on with you two?”

“What?” John said.  “What d’you mean?”

“You’re being odd,” Rosie said.

“We’re always odd,” Sherlock dismissed.

Rosie rolled her eyes.  “May I be excused?  I told Olivia I’d send her pictures of my outfit for tomorrow so we don’t accidentally match.”

“That seems… unnecessary,” John said as Rosie dropped her plate in the sink.  “All right, talk to you later!”

“That was not your best interrogation,” Sherlock said.  

“Not being able to use a gun certainly changes the game,” John said darkly.  “What do we do now?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “I believe that most parents would sit her down and tell her what they know, and then have an honest, frank discussion about romantic entanglements and sexual health and the excitement and challenges of growing up.”

“Right,” John said.  “Got any other ideas?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.

-

“This is a terrible idea,” John said.

“I didn’t hear you coming up with anything better,” Sherlock said.  “Hang on, your wig’s falling.”

“I don’t see why _I_  have to wear the wig,” John muttered as Sherlock made the necessary adjustments.  “Your hair’s more recognizable.”

“Yes, but it’s much funnier on you,” Sherlock said.  “And anyway, I’ve got to wear the glasses now that you’ve had to get _actual_  ones - ”

“They’re only for reading!” John argued, pulling on the collar of his oversized jacket.  “I don’t think a real lorry driver would wear this, you know.”

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s about blending in?” Sherlock said.  “In that jacket, you’re bound to go unnoticed.  Not that your regular clothes are anything remarkable.”

“Oh, that’s rich, talking about _my_  clothes,” John said.  “You’ve got five of the same Belstaff!” 

“It’s six, actually,” Sherlock said.  “Are you ready?”

“Not at all,” John said, following Sherlock into the Byron Strand and trying not to look suspicious.

“We’ll take a table in the back, if you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock said to the greeter.  

“What the hell is that accent supposed to be?” John hissed.

“Grew up in Liverpool but settled in Barking.”

“Well, it’s atrocious.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, sliding into the booth and picking up a menu.  

“Are you _sure_  she’ll be here?” John said.

Sherlock stared at him.  “Last month I tracked down a murderer based only on the size of his hedges.  I think I can figure out where a fifteen year old will be going on a date with her secret boyfriend.”

“How’d you do it?  Social media analytics?  Superspy technology?  Something about the way she put her socks on this morning?”

“I looked at her texts,” Sherlock said, scanning the menu.

John was appalled.  “I thought we said we would respect her privacy.”

“We’re following her in disguises, John,” Sherlock said.  “I do believe that ship has sailed.  Oh, she’s here.  No, _don’t_  look - ”

“Where _?_ ” John said, already craning his neck.  

“Coming in the front door, obviously,” Sherlock said, holding up a menu between himself and the front of the restaurant.  “We’ve done a million stakeouts, John, pull yourself together!”  


“What’s he look like?  Are they holding hands?  Is she smiling?  Does he look like he does drugs?”

“Tall, no, yes, and in my admittedly expert opinion, maybe,” Sherlock said.  “Shh, they’re being seated just behind you.”

“Oh, perfect,” John said, ducking down, as if that was somehow less conspicuous than sitting still.  “So what’s the plan?”

“Spy on her, then go home and tell her she can’t go on a date until she’s 30?” Sherlock said.  “She’s 15 years old, John.  It was bound to happen.  Maybe we should leave her be.”

John scowled.  “Don’t you know what 16 year old boys are like?”

“When I was 16 I was at Cambridge studying the potential for the enhancement of RNA-based methods for cell type identification.”  

“Well, let’s just say that’s not the first thing on most of their minds,” John said.  

From behind him, there was a familiar giggle, followed by an unfamiliar, lower-pitched one.

“They’re playing footsie, I believe,” Sherlock said. 

“Oh, god,” John said.  “This was a mistake.  We should go.  We’ll talk to her when she gets home, have a nice, civil conversation about it.  On three, we head for the door, right?  One, two, three - ”

“Excuse me, sir,” Rosie said, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of John’s jacket as he swung out of the booth.  “Might you be able to help me with something?”

John froze.  

“Er,” he said, suddenly enormously grateful for his wig, “I’ve, er, got to go - ”

“Oh, it’ll only take a moment,” Rosie said.  “It’s just - would you happen to have a condom?”

John spun toward her.  “What are you _talking_  about, young lady, are you - oh.”

Rosie narrowed her eyes.  “Hi, Dad.  Hi, Sherlock.”

“‘Ello,” Sherlock said in his horrendous accent.

“Funny seeing the two of you here,” Rosie said, with a tiny smile on her face that told John she was very, very angry.

“When did you spot us?” Sherlock asked.

“The moment I stepped in the door, obviously.”

“Good girl,” Sherlock said, and John elbowed him.

“Sweetheart, we were just - ”

“You were just spying on me?” Rosie said.  

“We generally prefer the term _detecting_ , actually,” Sherlock said.

John pulled off his wig and clutched it in front of him like a shield.  “Rosie, you’re right, this was wrong, but we’re just _worried_  about you, you’ll understand one day - ”

“No, Dad, I don’t think I will,” Rosie said.  “You know, just because _you_  two can’t handle a relationship doesn’t mean _I_  can’t!”

John blinked.  “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all,” Rosie snapped.  “Noah, let’s go.”

“Rosie,” John said, watching his daughter drag her bewildered boyfriend out by the hand.  “Rosie, wait - ”

The door swung shut behind her.

“Well,” Sherlock said.  “That could have gone better.”

-

The mood in 221B when Rosie got home just before 10 was what one might charitably call “tense”.

“Rosie,” John said as she stomped up the stairs.  “Rosie, come here and talk to us for a - ”

“I’m going to bed,” Rosie said, not even slowing down as she turned up the last flight of steps.

“No you’re not, you’re coming down here right now and - ”

The door slammed shut.

“Perhaps in the morning,” John said, wincing.

Across the room, Sherlock shrugged.

“All right, now what’s got _you_  in a strop?” John said.  “You’ve hardly said a word since we got home.” 

Sherlock arched one eyebrow unhelpfully.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” John said.  “I can only handle one teenager at a time!”  


Sherlock pulled his dressing gown more tightly around himself and didn’t deign to respond.

“Fine, then,” John said.  He climbed the stairs and rapped lightly on the door.  “Rosie.  Sweetheart.  Can we talk, please?”

“Wouldn’t you rather I forward you all my emails, or perhaps install one of Mycroft’s cameras in my bedroom?” Rosie said icily.

John slumped against the door.  “No.  No, I would rather talk, and I should have done that from the beginning.  We messed up, all right?”

There was a pause, and then - 

“Yeah, you did.”

John smiled weakly.  “Can I come in?”  

There was a loud, dramatic sigh that smacked of Sherlock.  “I suppose.”

John pushed open the door.  Rosie was curled up at the head of her bed, her arms around her knees, and John couldn’t help from thinking that she looked very, very young and absolutely fully grown all at the same time.  For a while he’d thought the Terrible Twos were the worst of it, but having a teenager was much, much harder.

“Thank you,” John said, shutting the door behind him and sitting down at the foot of her bed.  “For talking to me.  I don’t always do things right, you know.  Just because I’m a parent doesn’t mean I’m perfect.”

Rosie snorted.  “I know _that_.”

“I know you do,” John said.  “Sherlock and I - we’re going to have to adjust to you being grown up, all right?  We’re used to having a little girl.  But you’re not a little girl anymore, and I promise you, we’re going to respect that.  But in return, you need to respect us, all right?  We wouldn’t have been angry if you’d just _told_  us you had a boyfriend.”

Rosie raised her eyebrows.

“All right, Sherlock wouldn’t have been angry, and I probably would have been a little angry,” John admitted.  “But that’s only because I worry about you.  That’s why we did what we did.  Also because that’s what we’re _used_  to doing.  You know secrets aren’t much good around here.”

Rosie sighed.  “I knew Sherlock would figure it out.  I was just trying to figure out how to talk to _you_  about it.”

John shifted.  “I know it’s hard, sometimes, not having your mum around - ”

“Dad, it’s not that,” Rosie said.  “It’s just that you’re so _protective_.  Sometimes to the extreme.”

“I’m not sure that’s fair.”

“You shot someone for Sherlock after you’d known him two days,” Rosie said.

“I take it back, that’s entirely fair,” John amended.  “All right, here’s an offer.  I won’t shoot your boyfriend, okay?  And if I promise not to shoot him - ”

“ _Dad_.”

“ - and to generally be better about all of it,” John continued, “can you promise to be honest with me?”

Rosie smiled.  “Yeah.  I guess I can.”

“Good,” John said.  He crawled across the bed and kissed her cheek.  “Oh, and, sweetheart, listen, the thing you said earlier about Sherlock and I, er, it's - ”  
  
“Dad - ”  
  
“ - complicated, you know, and, well, you seem to think it's all very straightforward, and it would be, you see, if it were just me, but it isn’t, it takes two people, doesn’t it.  I know that _you_  know how I feel about, well, you know, but at any rate - ”  
  
“Dad - ”  
  
“ - it can't just be on one side, you've learned that yourself I'm sure, and in the end the way things are right now is fine, not perfect, perhaps, but things never are, are they - ”  
  
“ _Dad!_ ”  
  
“What?” John said.  
  
Rosie winced.  “He's listening at the door.”  
  
John shut his eyes. There was the very faint sound of footsteps descending rapidly down the stairs.  
  
“Oh, dear,” he said.  
  
“I think perhaps you'd better go talk to _him_  now, wouldn't you say?” Rosie said, smirking.  
  
“You could have said something earlier, you know.”  
  
“I know,” Rosie said. “And Dad?”  
  
“Yes, sweetheart?”  
  
“I'm not as good as he is at deducing people,” Rosie said, “but if you were asking _me_ , I'd say it's a whole lot more straightforward than you seem to think it is.”

“Right,” John said.

“Good luck!” Rosie whispered as John shut the door behind him  
  
John felt like a man condemned as he strode back into the living room, where Sherlock had arranged himself on the couch exactly as he’d been when John had left.  
  
“So,” John said.  “You heard all that then.”

“Yup,” Sherlock said, popping his _p_  a bit ostentiously.

“Right,” John said.  “Er.  What do you think?”  
  
“I think it's a bit sad that we're taking relationship advice from a fifteen year old,” Sherlock said.  

John laughed.  “She’s a smart one, though, isn’t she.”

“Of course she is, she’s ours,” Sherlock said.

“Too right.  Budge over, will you?” John said, nudging Sherlock aside so he could sit next to him on the sofa.  “By the way, did you just use the word relationship?”

“I may have,” Sherlock said.

“Huh,” John said.

Ten minutes later, Rosie’s door slammed open.

“I’m coming downstairs!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.  “My eyes are closed but I have to use the loo!”

By the time she reached the landing, John and Sherlock were as far away from each other as two people could be while still technically being on the same sofa.

“Nothing’s happening!” John said as Rosie ran by and threw the bathroom door shut.

“I’m not listening!” Rosie shouted from the bathroom.

There was a long silence.  John listened to the tap running.

“This might not be the moment,” Sherlock said, “but your hair’s a bit of a mess.”

“Oh, god,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Bedroom, then?”

“Yes, let’s.”

-

“Okay, shall we go over it again?” Rosie said.  “Dad, you’re not going to - ”

“Ask any pointed questions, bring out any baby pictures, or hint in any way that I’ve got a gun,” John said.

“Precisely,” Rosie said.  “And Sherlock, you’re not going - ”

“Deduce anything about him even if it’s extremely obvious,” Sherlock said.

“Indeed,” Rosie said.  “Now, remember, he might be a bit nervous, because he’s meeting you for the first time, and because you’re, you know, _you_.”

“What do you mean, _you_?” Sherlock said.

“I mean because of how you’re a famous consulting detective and all,” Rosie said.

“Oh, right,” Sherlock said.  “I forgot.”

Rosie’s phone buzzed.  “He’s here!” 

“Why didn’t he just knock?” John said, pulling plates from the cupboard.  “Sherlock, Iasked you to _move_  the microscope, not give it a good dusting.  We need the fourth place setting!”

“Where am I supposed to put it?” Sherlock said, crossing his arms.  “Your new fruit bowl is taking up the whole worktop!”

“First of all, _you_  were the one who spotted the fruit bowl, so don’t call it _mine_ , and secondly - oh, hi,” John said, smiling as warmly as possible as Noah, tall and nervous-looking and be-earringed, entered the flat.

“Hello,” Noah said.

“These are my parents,” Rosie said.  “They’re really weird but they mean well when they’re not being mad.  Also they’ve been dating for less time than we have, so don’t let them give you any advice.”

“Thanks for that, Rosie,” John said.  “Hello, Noah, it’s nice to officially meet you.  Sorry about the thing where we spied on you.”

“I was the one not wearing the wig,” Sherlock said, shaking Noah’s hand.  “Please, sit down.”

“How has your weekend been?” John said, trying to push Sherlock’s hazardous waste bin out of sight with his foot as they all settled in around the table.  “Got up to anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Noah said, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Just homework, mostly.”

“Except for the haircut, of course,” Sherlock said.  “And the trip to the shops with your mother, too - the shirt’s a nice color on you, by the way, though I agree with her that you should have gone one size up, if we’re being entirely… honest…”

Sherlock trailed off as John and Rosie both turned to him, Rosie furious, John exasperated.  

“Oh,” he said, withering very slightly under Rosie’s glare.  “I wasn’t supposed to do that.  Rude of me.  My apologies.”

There was a strained silence.  And then - 

“That was… amazing,” Noah said breathlessly.

Everyone stared at him.

“Really?” Rosie said.

“Absolutely extraordinary,” Noah said.  “Can you do another?”

Sherlock looked a bit smug.  “Perhaps later.”

“Cracking,” Noah said, grinning widely.

“Oh, thank god,” John said.


End file.
